Death Before Facebook (Skip Langdon #4) (Skip Langdon Mystery) (The Skip Langdon Series)

by Julie Smith

  “It looks like a journal,” said Pearce. He opened it, and Lenore saw that Geoff’s spidery handwriting covered the two pages thus revealed. Covered them completely, not even a margin left over. The first was dated June 4.

  It was the journal. The one no one knew for sure existed, but that her burglar was almost certainly looking for. Well, fine. She’d take it to the damn detective in the morning. She wasn’t in the mood to deal.

  Quickly, Pearce turned the pages, looking at the dates. The last one was November 4, two days before Geoff died. Avidly, he started to read, but Lenore was suddenly angry. She took a gulp of wine.

  “There’s something cold about this,” she said.

  Pearce turned to her, reading glasses pushed down on his nose, looking rather old and utterly befuddled. “What?” he said. It might as well have been “Say whuuut?” for all he seemed to know about what was going on.

  “You’re like some old… raptor.”

  “Huh?”

  “Rapacious… predatory.” She knew she was out of control, but she couldn’t help it; she was just saying whatever came to mind.

  Miraculously, he got it. He laughed, but it came out a lot like “Hee-haw.” “You mean like some salacious old journalist? Honey, they don’t call us news hawks for nothing. I’ll bet I’ve got a curved bill and little beady eyes by now.”

  She laughed too. “Your nose actually grew while you were doing that, did you know that?”

  “You mean, when I was poking it where it didn’t belong?”

  “Did you see anything—uh—you know…” She was starting to feel slightly queasy.

  He shook his head. “Not yet.”

  “I don’t know if I’m up to this right now—would you mind?”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t exactly… feel right.”

  “You mean about reading Geoff’s stuff.”

  “I don’t know. I just feel slightly sick.”

  He took her wineglass away from her. “You know what I’m going to do? I’m going to tuck you in and sing you a lullabye.”

  Suddenly she was almost inconceivably sleepy. “You are?”

  “Let’s go.” He took her hand. For some reason, she picked up the diary with the other.

  She just barely had the strength to set the clock. She clutched Geoff’s diary against her chest like a teddy bear, while Pearce held her other hand and sang her a pretty song about lying down in a big brass bed. He said it was an old Bob Dylan tune.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  BABY-SITTING NIGHT was looking up. Cindy Lou had called with a grab-a-bite invitation and Skip lost no time talking her into dinner en famille. Now the problem was figuring out what to make. There was always hamburgers—that went down well with kids—but did Cindy Lou eat meat? Yes, she’d had veal the other night.

  Okay, hamburgers. Sheila herself had said Jimmy Dee never made them—he probably had the kids on a perfectly balanced low-carb, low-cholesterol, high-vitamin regimen that Deepak Chopra himself couldn’t manage.

  It occurred to Skip that Jimmy Dee might be working too hard at fatherhood. No wonder he was so tired all the time and felt so beaten down.

  She shopped at the Quarter A&P, arriving with two giant bags she hoped Dee-Dee wouldn’t peruse before he left. But of course nothing would stop him.

  “Auntie! Naughty, naughty. Potato chips! You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “Lighten up, Dee-Dee, they’re kids.”

  “Yeah!” chimed in Kenny. “Auntie Skip, could I have a potato chip?”

  He never called her “Auntie” unless he wanted something.

  “You can have lots of them for dinner. For now—how about a carrot stick?”

  “Gimme a break!” But he trundled off good-naturedly.

  “I got cookies for dessert too. I think he’s right, Dee-Dee—maybe you ought to lighten up.”

  “God, I’m doing the best I can! This shit isn’t that easy for a fifty-year-old faggot.”

  “Well, I was thinking—maybe you’re making it harder than it has to be.”

  But he didn’t seem to want to talk about it. He said, “Sheila spoke to me today.”

  “Aha. You must be doing something right.”

  “I think that genie, Darryl, had something to do with it. We should have him over—tonight, for instance. How would that be?”

  “You mean I should have him over. You’re trying to promote something, aren’t you?”

  “I’ve found my true love. Why shouldn’t you?”

  She let that hang there a while.

  “You think I should call Layne?” asked Dee-Dee.

  “Sure—if it turns out he didn’t kill his best friend.”

  “Yeah. Maybe not quite yet. I haven’t had a date in four years—just my luck to bring home a murderer. But there’s something I don’t get. Since he was Geoff’s best friend, why would he kill him?”

  “It might not have anything to do with the flashbacks. Maybe that’s a blind alley.”

  “Oh, sure.”

  “I don’t know—maybe it was Pearce and he’s protecting him. Maybe he’s Pearce’s lover.”

  “Was, you mean. Was. He likes me now, remember?”

  She turned away smiling, intent on washing lettuce for the burgers. Dee-Dee was definitely interested. He’d had so many friends who died, he’d been too depressed even to think about romance for a long, long time. Maybe he had sex with someone or other—Skip didn’t know—but he sure didn’t have relationships.

  The doorbell rang.

  “That’ll be Cindy Lou. I asked her for dinner.”

  “How come you never ask anybody good when I’m home?”

  God, we’re like an old married couple! she thought as she went to answer the door. She wondered if she was about to be as jealous of Layne as Dee-Dee was of Steve.

  Sheila moved out into the hall and, catching a glimpse of dark skin, came tearing to the front of the house. “Oh. I thought you were Darryl.”

  “I’m only Cindy Lou.” She would have shaken hands, but Dee-Dee interjected himself between her and Sheila, kissed her on the cheek, and said, “Haven’t got time to say good-bye. Hello.”

  Kenny, who’d popped out as well, was the only one polite enough to chuckle. “Hey, Cindy Lou,” he said, and stuck out his hand as if he were grown up and a graduate of all the good schools put together. Cindy Lou lit up.

  What a pleaser, Skip thought, and felt a twinge for Sheila, who’d never learned the technique. Life seemed so much harder for her.

  But Cindy Lou turned to Sheila. “So you’ve met Darryl, have you?”

  “Are you related to him?”

  “Well, I don’t know; maybe. We’re about the same color, but I’m from Detroit.”

  “Really? We’re from Minneapolis.”

  “Aren’t you glad you’re out of all that cold and mess?”

  “I don’t know. Well, sometimes.” It was the first time Sheila’d ever said anything even slightly indicating she was happy to be there.

  Skip said, “I think it’s pretty cold here,” which set off twenty minutes of raving—on everybody’s part but hers—about what really awful weather was like.

  The kids liked Cindy Lou. The important part was Sheila did. That was two people she’d liked in less than a week. Progress was happening.

  Kenny went back to his homework or model-building or collecting for the poor or whatever exemplary behavior he performed when discreetly disappearing like the convenient child he was.

  But Sheila stuck around. “Hey, Cindy Lou, are you married?”

  “No, are you?”

  “Not yet, but—”

  “Are you engaged or anything?”

  “Well, I do kind of have this boyfriend, but I don’t know. Now I like somebody else, but I think he likes somebody else, and it’s somebody I’m sort of close to.”

  Good grief, can she mean Darryl? Is it this bad?

  “Well, what’s his name?”

  “The new guy?
Michael.”

  Skip breathed a sigh of relief. She’d probably forgotten all about her crush on Darryl.

  “And your friend? The one he likes?”

  “Annalise.”

  “Well, honey, Annalise won’t be your friend if you take her boyfriend away. And you know what’s important—your girlfriends. Boyfriends come and go—”

  “In some people’s lives,” said Skip.

  “I mean at your age,” Cindy Lou said to Sheila.

  “Oh. Well, then. Maybe if I got an older one, he might be more stable.”

  “How much older?”

  Sheila blushed.

  Skip said, teasing, “Someone like Darryl, maybe?”

  Without warning, the girl’s face clouded over. “Fuck you!” she said, and turned on her heel.

  Skip shrugged. “See what I mean? A trash-mouth.”

  “I think she’s adorable.”

  “What do you think about the way she changed like that—one minute okay, the next a little street thug?”

  “I think she felt attacked. I guess she’s pretty insecure.”

  “Wonder why. No dad. No mom—”

  “Go apologize.”

  “Huh?”

  “Yeah, go do it. It’ll make her feel better.”

  Skip found Sheila in the TV room, stretched out and pouting. “I’m sorry, honey. I didn’t know you minded being teased.”

  Sheila didn’t answer. Skip slunk back to the kitchen, feeling slapped.

  “Well?” said Cindy Lou.

  “Her Majesty’s not speaking.”

  “Don’t worry, it did some good. She’ll smooth out. She just needs a little time.”

  “I’m starting to see another problem, though. She’s only thirteen. Isn’t she awfully precocious—sexually, I mean?”

  Cindy Lou shrugged. “Welcome to the nineties.”

  Skip was peeling an onion, and it was making her cry. She turned it over to Cindy Lou. “Here. Don’t you have contacts?”

  “No, but I could use a good cry, just on general principles.”

  “Something wrong?”

  “Just crying for you, babe. About this pickle you’ve gotten yourself into.”

  “Being an auntie, you mean?”

  “Lordy, as my old mama used to say. Better you than me. And the same goes for that Darryl character, by the way.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? You’re the one with the bad taste.”

  “Yeah, I’d never mess with him—he’s not that bad. But I’m almost attracted to him—and that means he’s trouble.”

  Skip heaved a great sigh. “Are they all trouble? Tell me that.”

  “That Steve’s a pretty good one.”

  Skip turned from the counter, where she was making patties. She was surprised at the anger in her voice. “Well, he’s the one—” She had to stop, to keep herself from bawling. She blinked, but it was too late. Cindy Lou saw the tears.

  “You’re really upset.”

  “He’s not coming, Cindy Lou. For two years, he says. He says he’s developed some great new skill and everybody wants to hire him. But he’ll be here in two years, just like clockwork, he says. Right. Sure.”

  “You don’t believe him, huh?”

  Skip grabbed a paper napkin, the closest thing she saw to a tissue, and sat down at the kitchen table. Cindy Lou was crying too, from the onions. “I didn’t know I was this upset.”

  “That’s because you’ve been flirting with Darryl to distract yourself. That’s baby stuff, girlfriend. You’re mad at Steve and upset with Steve and sad about Steve—might as well go on and deal with it.”

  “Oh, quit sounding like a shrink.”

  “Sorry.” She shrugged. “I guess I just like the guy.”

  “Always a bad sign.”

  “Au contraire, regarding other people’s men. In this area, I have quite good taste. Steve’s a classic teddy bear; that Darryl’s a butterfly man.”

  “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “Just a little psychological term I made up. A butterfly man’s beautiful—dazzles you with his gorgeous colors. And what a tongue! You know what a butterfly’s tongue’s like? Kind of this long thing that rolls out? A butterfly man’s got a tongue that won’t quit—he’ll tell you everything you want to hear and when he’s done with that he’ll make up some nice new stuff, all of it just as pretty as all that plumage. Only two things wrong—”

  “He flies away.”

  “Oh, yeah. He flies. He flits from flower to flower—has to, to stay alive. The other thing’s kind of mixed—he’s got a real light touch. You know, like a butterfly kiss? In a way that’s nice and sweet but, I don’t know, in the end you just can’t take him seriously.”

  “Darryl’s a teacher. He went out with me at two A.M. to find Sheila and took us out to eat at three. It’s Steve who doesn’t give a damn about the kids.”

  “I knew one once who was a nuclear physicist. They can have good jobs, and they can be loving—I guess that’s what you’re saying about Darryl—and they can be great with kids because they’re so childlike themselves. But don’t expect them to tell you their innermost thoughts. And if they do, don’t be surprised if they tell you something different tomorrow.”

  Skip was starting to be amused. “Well, who needs innermost thoughts if they’re taking care of things? Like the kids, I mean.”

  “Let me put it another way. ‘Butterfly man’ is just the highly technical professional term for these guys. On the street, they’ve got another word for it.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Con artist.”

  “Oh, come on, Cindy Lou. You mean if I called up Fortier, they’d tell me Darryl didn’t work there?”

  “Oh, probably not. He probably works there. I’m just saying when something looks too good to be true, it usually is.”

  “He doesn’t look too good to be true. He looks just about good enough. Is it too much to ask that a man know how to take care of kids? That’s the part I’m impressed with.”

  “Oh, yeah? This guy doesn’t make you feel singled out? He doesn’t have some way of focusing on you—maybe on you and your whole family, Dee-Dee and Sheila as well—that makes you feel really special? Like he really has deep feelings for you even though he just met you? Tell me something—is there a person in the whole house who isn’t utterly charmed by him?”

  “Well, that part’s true. And he does have this way of focusing. How’d you know that?”

  “’Cause that’s a butterfly man. Are you getting it now?”

  “So you’re saying he’s just conning us? He doesn’t really have any feelings for us?”

  “Oh, he’s got feelings. It’s just that they’re very, very changeable.”

  Kenny came in. “Burgers ready yet?”

  Skip got up and went back to her patties. “Ten minutes.”

  “Okay.” He smiled ear-to-ear and left.

  “A doll,” said Cindy Lou.

  “Yeah. Wouldn’t you just hate to be his sister?”

  “Ooooh. Wouldn’t you?” She got up to set the table. “How’s the case going?”

  “Don’t ask. We hit an impasse.” Because Cindy Lou often worked as a consultant for the police department, Skip could talk about the case with her.

  Skip turned over the burgers. She dished them up and opened a bag of potato chips. “Tell me what you think about this threesome.” She told her about Lenore, Caitlin, and their self-appointed mother, Kit.

  “Oh, man. Kit’s got her hands full.”

  “Did I tell you what those women are into? You’re not going to believe this.”

  “You want me to call the kids?” Without waiting, Cindy Lou hollered, “Sheila! Kenny!”

  It was definitely time—the burgers were ready, the chips were in the bowl, the table was set, the condiments were on it. But Skip felt oddly disappointed, knowing she and Cindy Lou were going to have to postpone adult talk till after dinner.

  She wouldn’t have miss
ed that dinner for anything, though. The kids didn’t fight, no one stalked away, and they came close to settling the question of whether it was better to be eaten by a shark or a velociraptor.

  Sheila felt that a shark would probably bite your limbs off first, and you’d have to watch yourself get eaten, which would be by far the worst fate. “At least,” said Kenny, “you’d have time to kiss your butt good-bye. A dinosaur would just go for your guts—like you’d feel something really sharp in your middle and then you’d have to die looking into its cold carnivorous eye.”

  “Carnivorous!” hooted Sheila. “How could you know a word like that?”

  “Ha, ha, and ha! I know triskaidekaphobia too.”

  Skip’s sides hurt from laughing. She would have given up her job in Homicide for Jimmy Dee to have been there.

  When the kids had gone back to their homework, and she was loading the dishwasher, Cindy Lou said, “So what are Kit’s girls into? Witchcraft or something?”

  Skip whirled. “How the hell did you guess that?”

  “Is that it, really? Lucky, I guess. Anyway, half the world is. Why not them?”

  “Half the world is? How come I never heard of it? I thought pentagrams meant Satanism.”

  “Get hip, Granny. The goddess is coming back to save her only begotten Earth from the patriarchal demons.”

  “When you put it that way, it sounds like a pretty damn fine idea.”

  “I can’t pick any holes in it. Bring her on, why don’t you?”

  “Cindy Lou, you’re not kidding? You know about this stuff?”

  “Neopaganism? Sure I know. Black people never did stop doing magic. Voodoo’s paganism. You know, I wasn’t kidding about the demons. That’s what every religion does with the last one—demonizes it. Like Astarte and Baal—a pair of perfectly fine deities until the Hebrews got into that golden calf stuff. All of a sudden, they were the devil. And Pan, I guess, became the modem-day model for him—horns and cloven hooves, you know.”

  “How come you know this stuff?”

  “I’ve got a lot of Jungian friends. They’re heavy into archetypes. Made me read books and take courses. They said every educated person should know about it. You know what? They’re right.” She paused. “Say, why don’t we start a coven?”